Writing to my Imaginary and Rapt Friends

It's so fun to have a blog. I don't know who I'm writing to exactly. Not anyone that reads it specifically. Not that I don't like people to read it. I do. I like it way more than any self respecting person would mention. But, I can't let myself think of any one person as I type. Then I might worry about saying this or that. I might worry that what I am typing is boring or annoying. Luckily, I am writing to a kind of real and kind of imaginary someone. Or, maybe multiple someones. I don't know who they are exactly. They remain kind of vague. BUT, they hang on my every word. They can't wait for another post, and they think everything I say is the very thing they most want to hear. They can't get enough of it.

Even little tiny things like -- Jesse. They really do want to hear all about the trouble he causes and how I really really love him and also really really want to curl up in a fetal position close to a wall so I can rhythmically bang my head against it while I cry when I think about him. But he's so darn cute and says, "See ya' soon, Mom. Lub you!" as he goes to wreak havoc. And he insists we let him pray and repeats his little prayers in such a heartbreakingly cute way.

Whoever I'm blogging to loves that. They understand it and don't think I'm a bad mom for saying all that about wanting to cry and bang my head against a wall. And they want me to tell them all about how he is now in the stage of wanting to do every single thing himself. "I wanna try! I wanna try it!!" And how it is kind of tricky, but also kind of cute when I have to trick him into thinking he is putting his crib sheet back on himself by having him say, "push push" with his chubby little hands as he sticks them down the side of the mattress as we put the sheet back on (the sheet he tore off and threw out of his crib himself -- incidentally).

Not everyone loves to read that sort of thing, but whoever I am blogging to really REALLY loves to read it. They wish I would write more about Jesse.

Then I bring up Goldie's ear infection and they are suddenly like, "Oh? What? Do tell! How exciting!" It is fun to be writing about an ear infection and know it is bringing edge-of-your-seat kind of excitement to someone (even if that someone is in my imagination -- it still makes it fun to write). They think it is very entertaining to hear how I dreaded having her start on the ten day (twice a day) course of antibiotics because she is quite awful about taking medicine, and I envisioned twenty nightmares trying to get it in her. Instead it has turned out quite lovely because luckily (well . . . luckily is a strange word to use here), but luckily I was diagnosed with strep throat the very same day. We bought a pack of Skittles and I told Goldie she had to be the one in charge of reminding us both to take our medicine every morning and night (which she has faithfully done -- and that is good because if you read my earlier post you will know that I forget things and she remembers things). It is quite a little production each time. We get her dropper all full and ready. Then we get her a little cup of water. Then we get out my pill and cut it in half (because it is too big and I think I will choke on it). Then we get my cup of water. Then we get out a Skittle for each of us for a reward. When that is all set up. Goldie makes me wait to take my medicine 'til she is done with hers (which she takes in tiny doses with a drink between each bit). Then I finally get to swallow mine and tell her what a great girl she is being about her medicine. Then we eat our Skittles. Everything is marked on the calendar and she gets a prize at the end, and as much as she hates her medicine, she told me the other day she'll be sad when it is gone -- she likes our little yucky-medicine-and-then-a-Skittle ritual and that we get to do it together.

k

Do you see why having a blog with my mysterious rapt reader(s) is so wonderful? Who else would ever want me to tell them all of that? This is great.

Also, they want to know all sorts of things about me. Like how I wonder why it is that I like one thing to overkill -- always. A song. A certain food. No moderation. I will just listen to it (or eat it) over and over and over . . . until I can't really stand it anymore. Why is that? I don't know, but whoever my imagination is blogging to thinks it's charming.

k

They also don't want to say "gag" or feel bad if I tell them things I like so much about my husband. They think it is wonderful. They think he is wonderful (and sometimes trouble -- which he is). And they like me being happy as much as if they were my own mother. They love knowing about the time I complained to Mike that our new budget was not budgeting in the fact that I needed some new perfume. Later that day Mike brought me home one of those perfume samples you tear out of a magazine that maybe have enough sample to rub a little on your wrist. We both laughed at the perfume our new budget allowed as he handed it to me and said, "I can't guarantee it hasn't been used." But it actually made me so happy because I loved that my husband, hours after I grumbled about perfume, was still thinking of me and remembering that I'd mentioned wanting perfume when he came across the magazine sample. A week or two later, when Mike was on a work trip, he used up a fairly large amount of his per diem to buy me two new bottles of perfume. I loved that, but I think his little teasing gesture with the magazine sample made me just as happy.

I could go on and on because I have many more small and insignificant things I could ramble about -- which would be fine because my imaginary reader (maybe I have an imaginary friend now?) would love all of it. BUT, sometimes, just for a second, you real readers out there come into my consciousness, and while I know you all enjoy me well enough, I suddenly feel a little sheepish about all my ramblings. That is good though. It keeps me somewhat in check . . . somewhat.